Chapter 4
It had rained earlier in the day, and when Thad Howard rode into the little town of Sheffield, the street was a quagmire. The mud, worked into the consistency of quicksand by the horses’ hooves, had mixed with the droppings to become one long, stinking, sucking pool of ooze. When the rain stopped, the sun, yellow and hot in its late-afternoon transit, had begun the process of evaporation. The result was a foul miasma, rising from the offal of the street.
The saloon wasn’t hard to find. It was the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. Because of the shadows, there was an illusion of coolness inside the saloon, but it was an illusion only. The dozen-and-a-half customers who were drinking had to keep their bandannas handy to wipe the sweat from their faces.
Thad looked over everyone in the room. No one was wearing a badge, and none of the drinkers seemed to pose a problem. From all he could tell, there were only cowboys and drifters here, and less than half of them were even wearing guns. A couple of the cowboys were wearing their guns low and kicked-out gunfighter-style, but Thad could tell at a glance that it was all for show. He was certain they had never used their guns for anything but target practice, and probably were not very successful at it.
The bartender stood at the end of the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Thad step up to the bar, he moved down toward him.
“What’ll it be?”
“I’m supposed to meet my brothers in here,” he said.
“Your name Thad?”
“Yes.”
“They’re here. You owe me six dollars.”
“Six dollars? What the hell for?”
“That’s how much a tab they’ve already run up,” the bartender said.
“Get me a beer.”
“I ain‘t getting’ nothin’ till you pay up the six dollars,” the bartender said. “You got it or not?”
Although Thad had buried most of the money just outside of town, he had brought over a hundred dollars with him.
“Yeah, I got it,” he said, taking out a roll of money. He counted out six dollars and gave it to the bartender. “I’ll have that beer now,” he said.
The bartender drew the beer and gave it to him.
“Now, where are my brothers?”
“Upstairs in their room.”
“You rent rooms here?”
“I do.”
“For sleepin’ or sportin’.”
“Either way you want.”
“What room is my brothers in?”
“Number twenty-three, just at the top of the stairs.”
Thad climbed up the stairs, then opened the door.
“Hey, what the hell?” a man’s voice called out angrily.
In the bed, he saw two men and a woman. The woman scrambled to cover her nakedness.
“I got it,” Thad said, smiling broadly. He waved the money in front of them.
With shouts of excitement, Creed and Bob Howard jumped out of bed and started toward him.
“What’s going on here?” the woman asked.
“This here is our brother,” Creed said.
“If you expect me to take him on too, it’s going to cost more,” the woman said.
“Oh, yeah, hey, you want to join in?” Creed asked.
Thad shook his head. “No, to hell with that.” He held up a wad of money. “We’ve got enough for each one of us to have our own whore.”
* * *
Billy Puckett showed Falcon around town, introducing him to the mayor, the banker, the newspaper publisher, and the saloon owner. He walked him to the hotel and made certain that he got the best room in the house, then that night he invited Falcon to have dinner with him.
The Dunn Hotel proudly advertised bathing rooms on every floor, and Falcon took a bath and changed clothes so that when he stepped into the hotel dining room that night, he felt like a new man.
“You would be Mr. MacCallister?” the maître d’ asked.
The maître d’ somewhat surprised Falcon, because he hadn’t been there for breakfast.
“Yes, I’m MacCallister.”
“Sheriff Puckett is waiting for you.”
Falcon followed the maître d’ through the crowded dining room to a table in the far back corner. There were no windows near the table and, because the table was in the corner, both Falcon and the sheriff would be able to sit with their backs to the wall.
Sheriff Puckett stood as Falcon approached, reached out again to shake his hand, and then the two men sat.
“Would you like some wine, sir?” the maître d’ asked.
Falcon shook his head. “I’d prefer some sippin’ whiskey.”
“I’ll have the same,” Puckett said.
“Very good, sir.”
Both men ordered beefsteak and fried potatoes. Not until the waiter returned to the kitchen with their order did Puckett resume the conversation.
“Falcon, I want to apologize for the way the judge behaved this morning. Actually, he is a fine and principled man.”
“Oh, I don’t have any trouble with his principles,” Falcon said as he cut a piece of bread and spread some butter on it. “It’s the fact that he has prejudged me that I don’t like.”
“I can see how you’d be a mite upset over that. But like I say, he is an honest man. I have to tell you, Falcon, I’m very happy you accepted my invitation,” Puckett said. “And a little surprised as well.”
“Well, I had holed up long enough. I figured it was about time for me to get out again,” Falcon said. “And I confess that I have thought about you from time to time, wondering whatever happened to that fella Pa brought in more dead than alive.”
“Your pa was a good man,” Puckett said. “And your ma was a saint, nursing me the way she did.”
“You know, I don’t think I ever asked you, but how did you happen to wind up in Indian territory in the first place?”
Puckett laughed. “I had a bad winter once, went to the Rendezvous with some of the sorriest plews you ever seen. I heard a bunch of folks talkin’ about a stream where the beaver were as thick as flies. Only thing was, it was Indian territory and everyone was afraid to go there.”
“Let me guess. You figured if everyone else was afraid to go there, it would just make the pickings that much better for you,” Falcon said.
“Boy, you read my mind,” Puckett replied. “And it was a good plan too. I was halfway through the season, had more pelts than I’d taken in the previous two years. And they was good pelts too. Then, one day when I was runnin’ my traps, a party of Indians showed up. I tried to parley with them, but they weren’t in a talkin’ mood. Next thing you know they was orderin’ me out . . . without my beaver skins. Well, I wasn’t going to have that, so I pointed my rifle at them and ordered them to get.”
“I take it they didn’t get.”
“They rode out about fifty yards from me, then turned back. By then they had arrows in their bows, and they meant business. I shot one of them, but I took a couple of arrows before I could reload. Don’t know why they didn’t take my scalp, but when I come to, your pa was over me. Don’t know what he was doing there, or how he found me.”
“Pa had a lot friends among the Indians,” Falcon said. “He never told me flat out, but I would guess that they told him about you.”
“Well, I’m glad for that. Like I said, I wouldn’t be here now if your pa hadn’t found me, and your ma hadn’t nursed me through.”
“Billy, there was something else in your letter that got my attention. You said you had something you needed to get off your chest.”
“Yes. It’s something that has been bothering me for many years now. I need to talk to someone about it and, since it involves you, I’ve chosen you.”
“It involves me? Are you talking about something that happened thirty-four years ago?”
Puckett shook his head. “No. This was more like twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago and
it involves me? How can it? I didn’t know you twenty years ago.”
“You were in the war,” Puckett said. It was more in the form of a statement than a question.
“Yes,” Falcon said.
“You were at Chattanooga.” Again, the comment was more along the lines of a statement than a question.
“Yes, I was at Chattanooga.”
“So was I.”
“You were? I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“I saw you.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me?”
“I was wearing blue, you were wearing gray.”
“Billy, that’s not what you’re trying to get off your chest, is it? I mean, the fact that you wore blue and I wore gray? You may not know this, but some of my brothers fought for the Union.”
“It’s more than that. I want to tell you a story,” Puckett said.
“All right, I’m listening.”
The sheriff was a skilled raconteur, and as he began telling the story, Falcon found himself slipping back in time, reliving those days when, as a young man, barely in his twenties, he fought for the Confederacy, riding as a scout for Morgan’s Raiders.
* * *
The shock waves of the explosion moved across the field and hit Falcon, making his stomach shake. The blasts were set off by long fuses, but were timed to go together, starting as bursts of white-hot flame, then erupting black smoke from the points where the charges were laid. The underpinnings of the trestle were carried away by the torpedoes, but the superstructure remained intact for several more seconds, stretching across the creek with no visible means of support, as if defying the laws of gravity. Then, slowly, the tracks began to sag and the ties started snapping, popping with a series of loud reports like pistol shots, until finally, with a resounding crash and a splash of water, the whole bridge collapsed into the river.
“Now, that’s the way to do it,” Falcon said exuberantly. “We dropped her into the water just as neat as a pin!”
“I suppose so,” Captain Ward said.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” Falcon asked. “You don’t sound very enthused about it. It was a good job, and it’ll delay the Yankees for at least a week.”
“A week,” Captain Ward said. “Don’t forget, MacCallister, I live here. I watched them build that trestle before the war. Do you know how long it took?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“It took seven weeks. We blow it up in seven seconds, and the most we can hope to get out of it is that it will delay the Yankees by seven days. And it was our bridge in the first place. The tracks, the bridges, the roads, everything we are destroying down here belongs to the South. What kind of war is it when we strike at the enemy by destroying the property of our own people?”
“It’s a terrible war, Captain, but that’s the kind we’ve got,” Falcon said. “On the other hand, look at it this way. Better to give them one bridge than a whole town.”
“I guess you’re right,” Ward replied.
Sergeant Haverkost, who had been on lookout, came riding up. “Cap’n, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but they’s Yankee cavalry a-comin.”
“Very good, Sergeant. Get the men mounted,” Captain Ward replied.
“Whoa,” Falcon said. “Captain, we aren’t turning tail, are we? Shouldn’t we stay and fight them?”
“How are your shoes holding out, Lieutenant?” Captain Ward asked.
“My shoes?”
“Aren’t the soles getting a little thin?”
“Now that you mention it, I reckon they are.”
“If the Yankee cavalry is here, that means their supply depot isn’t guarded.” Captain Ward smiled. “I say we do a little shoppin’, then burn what we can’t carry away with us. It’s about time we destroyed some Yankee property.”
“Right!” Falcon said happily.
Captain Ward led his men into the supply depot, thinking it would be almost totally unguarded. But to his surprise, there was an infantry company waiting for them. Ward fell with the first volley.
Falcon leaped from his horse to try to rescue his captain, but bullets were whizzing all around him.
“Go!” Captain Ward shouted. “Get out of here! Take the men and go!”
One minié ball took off Falcon’s hat, and another penetrated the loose flap of his sleeve.
“Lieutenant, let’s not lose both of us here!” Captain Ward shouted. “I order you to get the men out now!”
Falcon nodded, then remounted. He shouted to the others.
“Fall back! Fall back!”
Two other men were hit and unseated. Another one slumped forward, and stayed mounted only because his friend held him in the saddle.
The Confederates withdrew, riding hard until they were well out of range. Then Falcon stopped them.
“What do we do now, Lieutenant?” Sergeant Haverkost asked.
“We wait until nightfall,” Falcon said. “Then we go back and get them.”
The wounded man who rode away from the ambush died late that afternoon. His death, and the capture of three of their own, kept the men’s blood running hot until that night. After sunset, Falcon led them back to the supply depot. Dismounting, they counted off every fourth man, designating him to be a horse holder. Then, advancing on foot, Falcon led the rest down to the clearing where the ambush had taken place earlier in the day.
What they saw stopped them in their tracks. The rage Falcon felt was so overpowering that he let out a scream of anger and defiance.
* * *
“I hung ’em,” Puckett said, concluding the story.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was me that hung ’em, Falcon. Captain Ward, Private Higgins, and Private Morrison. I was in command of the Union Infantry troops that were guarding the depot.”
Falcon was quiet for a long moment. The rage he had felt at the time he discovered the bodies of his captain and two of his men hanging from a tree limb had long since subsided.
“Why?” he asked.
“Rebels had destroyed three bridges, knocked down more than a hundred telegraph poles, and robbed two supply wagons. I had orders to make an example of anyone we caught who was engaged in that activity.”
“So you killed your prisoners,” Falcon said.
Puckett stared at the untouched steak on his plate. He was silent for a long moment. Then sighing, he nodded and said, “Yes, God help me, I killed them. At the time, I thought it was a legitimate act of war,” he continued. “But I know now, and have known for many years, that what I did was wrong. It has haunted me ever since.”
“Why are you telling me this now, after all these years?”
“I was there when you attacked the depot. I saw you jump down from your horse and try to save Ward. At first, I thought you were your father, you looked so much like him. But then I saw that you were too young to be Jamie. I asked Ward, and he confirmed who you were.”
“Captain Ward had a wife and two kids,” Falcon said.
“I . . . I didn’t know that.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Other than confirming who you were, he never said a word. He didn’t even say anything when we put the noose around his neck.”
“Would it have made any difference to you if you had known he had a wife and two children?”
“At the time, I don’t think it would have. Now, it just adds to my burden.”
“Why did you tell me, Billy?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Puckett replied. “I reckon what I’m doing is asking for your forgiveness.”
“I can’t do that,” Falcon replied. “It’s not that I won’t . . . it’s that I can’t. I don’t think I have that right. If it’s forgiveness you’re wanting, I reckon you’re going to have to get that from the families of the men you hanged.”
Billy stared at his steak for a moment, then pushed his plate away, totally untouched.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I can’t ask them for forgiveness until I ca
n forgive myself.”
Seeing the pain in Sheriff Puckett’s face, Falcon sighed. “Billy, I expect that if truth were known, there’s no one who fought in that war that doesn’t have something they’d just as soon forget. I know that I have my own ghosts chasing me. It’s something that we all have to live with. You didn’t do what you did out of malice of heart, but because you deemed it your duty. But if it’s any consolation to you, I want you to know that I’m not holding what you did against you. That was then, and this is now.” He offered his hand in friendship. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the same brave, strong man who once fascinated a young boy with stories of your adventures in the mountains.”
A look of relief came across Billy’s face then, and he smiled as he took Falcon’s hand in his own.
“Thanks, Falcon,” he said. “You’ve just taken a huge load off my heart.”
Sheffield, Dakota Territory
The Howard brothers had been in Sheffield for almost two weeks now, and during that time they had spent money like water. All three were wearing new clothes. Thad had a new hat, and Creed was wearing new boots.
They had bought drinks for everyone in the saloon several times now, and had lost money in poker games without complaint. If there was any complaint, it was that whores of the town, anxious to get their share of the money, were paying so much attention to the three Howard brothers that the other men felt left out.
They had established a habit of having their breakfast in bed every morning . . . though because they were staying up so late each night, “morning” for them occurred at around one-thirty or two o’clock in the afternoon.
When Thad came down this morning, the bartender smiled and called out to him.
“Mr. Howard, it come in this morning.”
“What come in this morning?” Thad asked.
“Why, your champagne, of course,” the bartender said. “Don’t you remember the other day when you asked me to order you some? Well, I did, and it come up from MacCallister.”
“Champagne, yes!” Thad said. “I ain’t never tasted it before, and I figured that if I didn’t do it now, I never would do it.”
Destiny of Eagles Page 5